Something Wonderful
Page 30
He grinned at the poetic bent of his thoughts and stepped into the clearing.
"Oh, it's you!" she said, dropping her arms hastily to her sides, but looking relieved.
"Who else were you expecting?"
Stalling for time before she had to return to the coach, Alexandra bent down and snapped off a long, slender branch from a dead sapling. "No one, but when one is traveling with two coachmen, two postilions, and six outriders, it's hard to guess who will appear. What an army!" she laughed, and then, lightning-quick, she excuted a saber salute with the branch and thrust it at Jordan's chest. "En garde!" she said teasingly, then pointed the wooden saber at the ground, put her palm atop it, and jauntily crossed one ankle in front of the opposite leg, looking like a remarkably pretty, youthful swordsman.
The thrusting motion with the wooden "saber" had been executed with such flawless technique that Jordan couldn't believe she was merely mimicking something she'd seen. On the other hand, he couldn't believe she possessed any real knowledge or skill, either. "Do you fence?" he asked, his dark brows furrowed in disbelief.
She nodded slowly, her smile widening. "Care to try me?"
Jordan hesitated, aware that daylight was slipping past, but his fascination rapidly won out over his common sense. Besides, he too was tired of being confined in the coach. "I might consider it," he replied, deliberately baiting her. "Are you good enough?"
"There's only one way to find out."
Accepting her challenge with a gleam of amusement, he turned and looked around for a suitable branch. By the time he'd found one the right length and width, Alexandra had already removed her bonnet and pelisse. Arrested, he watched her unknot the scarf from around her neck, pull it off, then unbutton the top buttons of her silk shirt. At the sound of his approach, she whirled around in a swirl of yellow skirts, her color gloriously high, her aquamarine eyes sparkling with anticipation. "I wish I could remove my petticoats and slippers," she announced. As she spoke, she lifted her skirts, exposing slim, surprisingly shapely calves to Jordan's view, while she wriggled her dainty foot and ruefully considered the offending yellow slippers on her small feet. "I suppose I'd ruin my stockings if I took my slippers off. Wouldn't I?"
She glanced at him for advice, but Jordan's mind was momentarily preoccupied with how adorable she looked in that particular pose, and another, less welcome awareness: Desire. Without warning, he felt hot desire pulsing to life within him—unexpected, unwelcome, but undeniable.
"My lord?"
His gaze shot to hers.
"Why are you glowering at me in that ferocious fashion?"
With an effort, Jordan shifted his thoughts to her predicament, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he was going to have her before their journey ended. "If you're worried about your stockings, take them off," he said, then he mentally shook his head at her naiveté when she ingenuously turned her back to him and peeled them off, allowing him glimpses of smooth, bare calves and ankles.
Finished, she picked up her makeshift saber and touched it to her forehead in a jaunty formal salute. Jordan returned the salute, though his mind was occupied with the bewitching sparkle in her mesmerizing blue-green eyes and the exquisite rosy color at her smoothly carved cheeks.
She had scored two points on him before he finally managed to concentrate on the swordplay, and even then she proved to be a worthy opponent. What she lacked in strength, she made up in lightning-quick moves and flashy footwork. But in the end it was her footwork that finally cost her the match. She had stalked him halfway around the clearing, advancing quickly, holding her ground, never retreating unless he physically overpowered her. With only one point left to decide the outcome, Alexandra suddenly saw an opening and lunged at him. Unfortunately, as she lunged forward, she stepped on the hem of her gown, which sent her sprawling off balance, straight into Jordan.
"You lost," he chuckled as he caught her in his arms.
"Yes, but it was my long skirt, and not your swordsmanship, which gave you the match," she retorted, laughing. Pulling out of his arms, she stepped back, her chest rising and falling as she strove to catch her breath. But the heightened color on her cheeks owed far more to his touch than her exertion. "You should have spotted me some points at the outset," she reminded him. "After all, you're twice as strong as I am."
"True," he admitted, smiling impenitently, "but I didn't take advantage of my strength. Moreover, I'm a great deal more advanced in years than you."
Laughing, she plunked her hands on her slim hips. "You're a veritable antique, your grace. Next year or the year after, you'll be at your last prayers, with a shawl round your shoulders and Henry dozing at your feet."
"And where will you be?" he demanded with mock solemnity, his hands itching to pull her into his arms.
She stepped back with an arch smile. "In the nursery, playing with my dolls—as befits my tender years."
Jordan gave a shout of laughter, wondering what the ton would say if they could see him being treated with such total lack of respect by a country-bred chit of eighteen.
"Where else should I be," she teased, "if not in the nursery?"
On my lap, he thought. Or in my bed.
The laughter vanished from her face and she pressed her hands to her cheeks, staring over his shoulder. "Good heavens!"
Jordan turned sharply to see the cause of her chagrin and saw six outriders, two coachmen, and two postilions standing shoulder-to-shoulder, their abashed expressions testifying to the fact that they had witnessed the earlier swordplay and now the wordplay between the duke and his duchess.
His jaw tightened, his steady, icy gaze slicing across them, dispersing them as effectively as any words could have done.
"That's very impressive," Alexandra teased, reaching down and plucking up her discarded garments. "That thing you do with your eyes," she clarified, looking around for Sir Henry. "You slay with a glance. You don't need a sword. Is that a natural talent that the nobility is born with, or is it a skill you acquire later, as befits your station?" She found Henry sniffing about beneath a bush and scooped him up. "Your grandmother can do it too. She quite terrifies me. Would you hold these for me?" Before Jordan realized what she was about, she dumped bonnet, pelisse, and hairy puppy into his arms. "Would you turn your back, please, while I put my stockings on?"
Obediently, Jordan did as bidden, but in his mind, he visualized the ton staring in collective, comical shock at Jordan Townsende—12th Duke of Hawthorne, holder of the most magnificent lands and fortune in Europe—who was now standing in a clearing with an armload of discarded clothing and one unwanted puppy who was determined to lick his face.
"Oh, it's you!" she said, dropping her arms hastily to her sides, but looking relieved.
"Who else were you expecting?"
Stalling for time before she had to return to the coach, Alexandra bent down and snapped off a long, slender branch from a dead sapling. "No one, but when one is traveling with two coachmen, two postilions, and six outriders, it's hard to guess who will appear. What an army!" she laughed, and then, lightning-quick, she excuted a saber salute with the branch and thrust it at Jordan's chest. "En garde!" she said teasingly, then pointed the wooden saber at the ground, put her palm atop it, and jauntily crossed one ankle in front of the opposite leg, looking like a remarkably pretty, youthful swordsman.
The thrusting motion with the wooden "saber" had been executed with such flawless technique that Jordan couldn't believe she was merely mimicking something she'd seen. On the other hand, he couldn't believe she possessed any real knowledge or skill, either. "Do you fence?" he asked, his dark brows furrowed in disbelief.
She nodded slowly, her smile widening. "Care to try me?"
Jordan hesitated, aware that daylight was slipping past, but his fascination rapidly won out over his common sense. Besides, he too was tired of being confined in the coach. "I might consider it," he replied, deliberately baiting her. "Are you good enough?"
"There's only one way to find out."
Accepting her challenge with a gleam of amusement, he turned and looked around for a suitable branch. By the time he'd found one the right length and width, Alexandra had already removed her bonnet and pelisse. Arrested, he watched her unknot the scarf from around her neck, pull it off, then unbutton the top buttons of her silk shirt. At the sound of his approach, she whirled around in a swirl of yellow skirts, her color gloriously high, her aquamarine eyes sparkling with anticipation. "I wish I could remove my petticoats and slippers," she announced. As she spoke, she lifted her skirts, exposing slim, surprisingly shapely calves to Jordan's view, while she wriggled her dainty foot and ruefully considered the offending yellow slippers on her small feet. "I suppose I'd ruin my stockings if I took my slippers off. Wouldn't I?"
She glanced at him for advice, but Jordan's mind was momentarily preoccupied with how adorable she looked in that particular pose, and another, less welcome awareness: Desire. Without warning, he felt hot desire pulsing to life within him—unexpected, unwelcome, but undeniable.
"My lord?"
His gaze shot to hers.
"Why are you glowering at me in that ferocious fashion?"
With an effort, Jordan shifted his thoughts to her predicament, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he was going to have her before their journey ended. "If you're worried about your stockings, take them off," he said, then he mentally shook his head at her naiveté when she ingenuously turned her back to him and peeled them off, allowing him glimpses of smooth, bare calves and ankles.
Finished, she picked up her makeshift saber and touched it to her forehead in a jaunty formal salute. Jordan returned the salute, though his mind was occupied with the bewitching sparkle in her mesmerizing blue-green eyes and the exquisite rosy color at her smoothly carved cheeks.
She had scored two points on him before he finally managed to concentrate on the swordplay, and even then she proved to be a worthy opponent. What she lacked in strength, she made up in lightning-quick moves and flashy footwork. But in the end it was her footwork that finally cost her the match. She had stalked him halfway around the clearing, advancing quickly, holding her ground, never retreating unless he physically overpowered her. With only one point left to decide the outcome, Alexandra suddenly saw an opening and lunged at him. Unfortunately, as she lunged forward, she stepped on the hem of her gown, which sent her sprawling off balance, straight into Jordan.
"You lost," he chuckled as he caught her in his arms.
"Yes, but it was my long skirt, and not your swordsmanship, which gave you the match," she retorted, laughing. Pulling out of his arms, she stepped back, her chest rising and falling as she strove to catch her breath. But the heightened color on her cheeks owed far more to his touch than her exertion. "You should have spotted me some points at the outset," she reminded him. "After all, you're twice as strong as I am."
"True," he admitted, smiling impenitently, "but I didn't take advantage of my strength. Moreover, I'm a great deal more advanced in years than you."
Laughing, she plunked her hands on her slim hips. "You're a veritable antique, your grace. Next year or the year after, you'll be at your last prayers, with a shawl round your shoulders and Henry dozing at your feet."
"And where will you be?" he demanded with mock solemnity, his hands itching to pull her into his arms.
She stepped back with an arch smile. "In the nursery, playing with my dolls—as befits my tender years."
Jordan gave a shout of laughter, wondering what the ton would say if they could see him being treated with such total lack of respect by a country-bred chit of eighteen.
"Where else should I be," she teased, "if not in the nursery?"
On my lap, he thought. Or in my bed.
The laughter vanished from her face and she pressed her hands to her cheeks, staring over his shoulder. "Good heavens!"
Jordan turned sharply to see the cause of her chagrin and saw six outriders, two coachmen, and two postilions standing shoulder-to-shoulder, their abashed expressions testifying to the fact that they had witnessed the earlier swordplay and now the wordplay between the duke and his duchess.
His jaw tightened, his steady, icy gaze slicing across them, dispersing them as effectively as any words could have done.
"That's very impressive," Alexandra teased, reaching down and plucking up her discarded garments. "That thing you do with your eyes," she clarified, looking around for Sir Henry. "You slay with a glance. You don't need a sword. Is that a natural talent that the nobility is born with, or is it a skill you acquire later, as befits your station?" She found Henry sniffing about beneath a bush and scooped him up. "Your grandmother can do it too. She quite terrifies me. Would you hold these for me?" Before Jordan realized what she was about, she dumped bonnet, pelisse, and hairy puppy into his arms. "Would you turn your back, please, while I put my stockings on?"
Obediently, Jordan did as bidden, but in his mind, he visualized the ton staring in collective, comical shock at Jordan Townsende—12th Duke of Hawthorne, holder of the most magnificent lands and fortune in Europe—who was now standing in a clearing with an armload of discarded clothing and one unwanted puppy who was determined to lick his face.
